His eyes, Her soul
by HeartoftheNighte
Summary: No words spoken, none needed, for she is Shy and he is Tristan. Souls entwined. Small little oneshot, not in the usual fashion.


**A/N:** This is just a little story that popped into my head one night while I was feeling depressed and probably a little psycho, my usual state late at night. You can call this a smut scene if you like, though that isn't how its supposed to be, in my mind that is. In those last few paragraphs I was trying to achieve something more, not just smut. Anyhow, if you read I hope you understand. Constructivecriticism is highly welcomed.

**A/N 2:** To all those reading my main story, "Call Me Home Again, Arda" I'm so very sorry for not updating on that story. I've had severe writer's block concerning that. But watching a whole bunch of KarlUrban movies where he's simply scrumptious is very much helpingto undo that and I hope to have something up within the next couple of weeks. :)

Oh, all disclaimers apply. Do not own, do not sue. All I have to sell is my Nickelback and Smile Empty Soul cd's and I'd DIE before those left me. So leave me alone. :p

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She was invisible. No one saw her. It was the cover she had made for herself, to hide, never to be seen, never to be called freak. They never saw her. They never saw her ruin. They never saw her pain. To live and never be seen, to never feel the touch of human contact. Such was she denied. For to reach out was to be hurt. Painful truths learned too quickly, to soon in life. Not to be healed, not to be seen. Invisible. To walk without a sound. To pass without a whisper. To speak and not heard. Forgotten before you're gone. They say people are forgotten but deeds live on forever. Will hers be remembered? Will anyone recount her days and say "there was a hero, babes. She lived on and endured horror, and in the end conquered her demons"? Will her name be written in the history books? Will college students write essays on her life? Do deeds outlive their owners? That is a question to be answered.

WWWWWWWWWWWWWWW

The night is dark. No stirring of enemies to the North, no fear in anyone's heart. No need to keep armor and weapons close, no need to fear this night. Unlike so many others. Tonight it is peace. For many but not all. She is silent. Invisible to all. So she thinks. Around her there is torch light, noise, so much noise. Boisterous laughter, drink is flying along with knives. The sports of men. These are harmless, unlike so many others. She knows well how dangerous the sports of men can be. She is silent, slipping among the people like a ghost. Seen yet not. Forgotten before she has past. Another of the mob, yet not. More invisible, less substantial. No friend or family to keep her presence alive and remembered. A wraith, nothing but a shell of what she once was.

But he sees. He sees and he understands. He is the only one to know of her presence, her life. He knows her life. Knows what she hides. He has seen. She knows he has seen. She believes he has forgotten like everyone else. He has not. Knows he never can. She hates him. He knows this. He had seen what was not meant to be seen. This can never be forgiven. So he believes. So she believes. How wrong two souls can be.

She slips away, his silent wraith. He follows. He must. He cannot help himself. She hates him. It can't stop him. He must see. He must watch. Watch her ways, watch her soul. It is wrong to spy such. He cares but cannot stop. He must needs see this unveiling every time. She has never been seen by another. Believes he has never seen but once. Oh so many times more. She is his. He knows this. She doesn't. He has claimed her like no other has. He has seen her as no other has. As no one else shall ever. She is his alone to keep. Forever.

Through night and woods the chase leads. Deep into darkness, hidden from all light. For she is unseen, will never be seen, cannot let herself be seen. But he sees. He alone can see this. As silent a shadow as she, he follows, bidden by this wraith who has captured his soul. Forever. Damn immortality. This is it. This is what will last forever, long past their deaths.

Darkness is pushed aside by starlight. A pool, a waterfall, a hidden cave. This is it. The place of her unveiling. To his place he slips, to watch a play greater than Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet. Far more sorrow, far more pain, far more tragedy. No one knows anything of tragedy. But them. They know. They will always know.

Beside the pool rough wool is shed, like a snakes skin. Some would say this transformation is hideous. But he knows the truth. This is her soul revealed, imprinted on flesh. No one knows. No one but him. This is his to keep, given, yet also taken.

Lines, familiar to those that have seen the sight before across her belly, her breasts. Lines formed by life begun. Never to be finished. Never to come truly alive. Never the chance. Another line across her belly, ragged, dark, telling the dark truth of life torn away from its life source. Unspeakably, horribly. Horror. Madness. Fools. Couldn't they see? No. None but him. For this secret she hated him. Nothing else mattered to her but this secret. He had taken it. But there was more. Hidden by cloth and hair. There, upon her face. Flesh ruined by flames unkind touch. Cheek and brow ruined, yet eye untouched. Saved, perhaps, by God's merciful grace. But if that were so then life would have been saved as well. But it hadn't. Forever damned.

A foot, pale, not perfect, the leg not beautiful, touches the water. The temperature is already known. This ritual is always known. Always the same. Never changed. To preserve that which is already gone. Taken away so long ago, the making of this ghost. Could they not see? No. No one could. She was forever his.

She slips into the water, giving herself to its icy grasp. This one chance to try and freeze the sorrow in her soul. But never was it to be taken away. Kept inside, tortured. Life taken away, never brought back. The sorrow is in his soul as well. To watch and never to hold. She hates him. He has seen. She can never be his. But she is. She has been since he had seen her, here, in this sacred place. He had seen and he had captured. She thought she was forgotten. How wrong she was. This is the way it would be forever. Or was it? Could things not change? Could not life be restored?

He slips farther from his cover. Never has he done this. If she sees she will never come again. But he must, he must be seen. He can save her. He knows this. Then what keeps him? She hates him. Love has turned from hatred before. Can this not change? He is like a wraith, slipping from hiding to hiding, drawing ever nearer. She does not see him. She does not hear. And like a ghost he drifts to the edge to stand, unseen, unheard. He is a ghost and she is his wraith.

She rises above the water like a nymph in ancient legends. Rises, water shimmering like droplets of silver. He watches. He cannot move. He knows the moment when she will turn. Knows the every move of this ritual. It is her eyes that move first. Luminescent pools, like the one she stands in now. They catch him before she has fully turned. She is still, like a deer at the sight of the arrow knocked. She recognizes. He cannot move. Her eyes are on him. She rises, with all the grace of the leaping stag with the arrow firmly in it's breast. She watches him. He has intruded. Both know this. She wonders. She had thought he had forgotten. But he is here. And she knows. Knows that this isn't the first time he has watched her. She should be angry. She should hate him. But not again. Not this moment. She faces him across the water, her only protection from what he offers. His hand rises, so large, so powerful. He is asking though no words have passed between them. She sees it. Can she? Can she hand him her soul? His eyes watch her. His eyes. The window to his soul like this night is to hers. She moves without the will of her body. She comes to him, passes his hand, to stand before him. Her own hand rises to rest on his breast. It is not long and slender. It is not perfect. But it is hers. His hand slips along her cheek, over the ruin, to her hair, to caress within its deep folds. Toggles are slipped through their holes, long coat discarded, the rest to follow. Bare to the night. Bare to their souls. To touch him is to touch the end of all this. Fingertips glide along her shoulder. The back of her nails brush across his cheek, down the side, to glance lightly over rough covered jaw. No more is needed. All is done.

To the water they move, embraced by it. It ripples against his hips where a dark slash lies. They are but breaths apart. Hands glide across faces to touch and feel this binding that will go deeper than flesh can translate. But it is their only hope to show it. But not to feel it. That goes too deep. Both know this. Tonight their souls will be bound. His to hers, hers to his. She takes his hand, places it against the ruin of her belly. He understands. He must accept this if he is to have her. He does, he already has, long ago. Through his touch she knows what he feels. Her eyes close to close the gates of the leakage of her sorrow, but a single soldier escapes to travel alone along the battlefield. It is wiped away by his thumb. He will take away her sorrow another way.

Limbs are intertwined, breath shared, souls combined. The final end, the perfect closure of flesh is not lust, but rather a chance for their souls to touch completely if only for a moment. A moment grasped, held for as long as possible. Entwined like root and stone, a coming together of shared pain, shared sorrow, shared understanding. A new ritual is born this night by the coming of this knight. He has seen her. He has saved her, taken her invisibility away. She should hate him. She cannot. She belongs to him. And he is hers. No words spoken, none needed, for she is Shy and he is Tristan. Souls entwined.

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**A/N:** Just so you're sure, this IS a Tristan/OC story. Him and Ioan are the bloody most hottest guys on that movie and running just in behind are Joel Edgerton, Ray Stevenson and Hugh Dancy who tie. Ray Winstone was bloody hilarious and for that I love him. Sorry Clive Owen, but you're no where on there. He's probably the best actor out of all them, but he does nothing for me, though he has lovely eyes. If you watch, they change colors. Sometimes they're green, or really blue, sometimes brown, and even sometimes they look black. Sorry, I've watched that movie TOO many times since I got it on my birthday a couple of months ago.

Shy is short for Shylah which, according to those online celtic name websites means, Loyal to God and/or strong. Shy is listed as a shortening/nickname of Shylah. Anyhow, seemed to fit her so there it is. Review? I have an Orlando Bloom poster I'll give to the first one that does. :D


End file.
